


Snake Handler

by RicePaper_Fox



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:31:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RicePaper_Fox/pseuds/RicePaper_Fox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Farfarello meets his team leader for the first time, and proves himself a little too perceptive. Features origins-speculation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snake Handler

Farfarello's heart was pounding as he approached the heavy door to the Outside. How long had it been? A year? Two? Even then, he'd still been inside the school complex, always with an armed escort. The occasions Schuldig took him out, they'd still watched from a distance.

 

He was meeting Schuldig, now. But this was different; he was going to a car, leaving Rosenkreuz. And once Farfarello was in that car, he wouldn't be the school's problem anymore. He knew they were glad to get rid of him.

 

The tug on the back of his straight-jacket was an unnecessary reminder to stop at the door. Farfarello jerked forward in retaliation, and gave a small, satisfied smile when the guard on his right tightened his hold on his semi-automatic rifle. These people were afraid of him. He didn't need to be suited up, the straps on his legs almost too tight to walk, let alone run. He even had four armed guards. He supposed he should be flattered, but they should know he wasn't stupid enough to mess this one up.

 

Finally, finally the door opened. The sunlight was bright, and Farfarello closed his single eye and breathed in the cool air. It was spring, he realized.

 

With a rough shove, the guards had him walking again. He nearly tripped with the first step as the strap on his legs impeded his balance, and he shot a glare at one of the guards. But he continued forward toward the black car. The door opened from the inside, and he saw Schuldig settle back into the seat facing the back window. After a moment of consideration about how to go about this—his legs are too closely strapped to just climb in—he decided to scoot in backward. As soon as his feet were in, the door was slammed shut.

 

Schuldig simply watched him and smirked as Farfarello settled down, and he could feel a soft touch in his mind, like a man who tests a wound. He was sure that the telepath was wondering if he could feel discomfort if he couldn't feel pain. The answer was yes; just because something didn't hurt didn't mean it was pleasant.

 

Schuldig himself had changed since they last met, and once again Farfarello wondered how long it had been. The most obvious change was the hair, longer, at the shoulder-blades, and styled into layers, looking like a fiery mane. But there was something different in his demeanor, too. Such a small change, Farfarello couldn't quite name it.

 

The telepath was still feeling around the surface of his mind, watching him an smoking a cigarette, waiting for Farfarello to break the silence. And as he raised the cigarette back to his lips again, it hit Farfarello.

 

“You have a lover.”

 

Schuldig froze, and blue eyes narrowed. “What makes you think that?”

 

“You're putting yourself on display,” Farfarello said. “But it's not for me, or for the troll driving the car. It's habit, isn't it? But you never did when you visited me before, which means something changed. You're used to having someone whom you want to notice you.”

 

“Really.” Schuldig's annoyance only served to confirm Farfarello's suspicions.

 

“It's the ever-elusive Brad Crawford, isn't it?”

 

Farfarello had never met Crawford before; he was like an invisible force, directing Schuldig and moving things forward. This meant that what Farfarello knew was only what he'd gleaned from Schuldig. Crawford was American, older than them, and he was precognitive.

 

And then, there were hints. It took a while for Farfarello to start calling the German by his assumed name. Before that, he referred to him as “Alichino,” his fellow devil. Crawford had wanted to know if maybe Farfarello meant Arlecchino. After some thought, Farfarello decided it didn't make a difference, although not the one that Dante knew. That day, he liked Crawford.

 

“Where is he?” he asked. “When will I meet him?”

 

“In a few moments,” Schuldig said, shortly.

 

Schuldig was uncomfortable; he'd smashed out his cigarette, and now sat stiffly in his seat. It amused Farfarello that a mind-reader felt so violated when others knew things about _him_ without his permission. He was distracted almost immediately, though, as the car door opened and another man entered.

 

Crawford surprised him. He was younger than Farfarello had imagined, perhaps in his early twenties. He had expected the man to be an overtly sexual being, since Schuldig apparently coveted that trait so much, but he wasn't. If anything, he was staunchly _professional_. Highly attractive, yes, with his sleek black hair and tailored suit, but not the type of man that he could imagine Schuldig having a long-term affair with.

 

A knock on the window from Crawford, and the car began to drive. They rode in silence for some moments, Schuldig smoking once again, and Crawford studied Farfarello studying him. Once again, letting the Irishman make the first move. He wondered if that's where Schuldig had learned that particular trick from, or if maybe that was one of the few things that just had in common.

 

“Three,” Farfarello, finally said.

 

Crawford raised his eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. So he was more patient than the telepath, too. How very odd.

 

“It's a significant number,” he said. “The Trinity. Acts of existence. Makeup of a man. But we're not going to be three, are we? There will be a fourth.”

 

“What makes you say that?” Crawford asked.

 

“The Rule of Opposites,” Farfarello said. “This team doesn't have the balance it needs—there will be one more, to balance the scale. To counter to Intellectual with Physical. Not to mention the lack of impulse control.”

 

“He _is_ surprisingly astute, isn't it?” Crawford said, lightly. Although he looked at Farfarello, he addressed Schuldig, who made an affirmative noise in his throat.

 

“For a madman.”

 

“Were you baptized?”

 

Farfarello's question seemed to surprise Schuldig, and he wondered where the telepath's mind had been. Crawford's expression didn't change, just remained intrigued and slightly amused. Like the logic of a madman was something to be absorbed, cataloged, and put away for later use.

 

“No,” he said. “I wasn't.”

 

“Your parents were atheists.”

 

“I never said that,” he said.

 

One more piece to the puzzle that was Crawford. Farfarello wondered if the American was a snake handler, and precognition was his God. It could be in his blood; believe hard enough, and he could hold Alichino in his arms without fear. It was an interesting theory, certainly.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The penthouse was big and clean. Not sterile, though, like the laboratories. Instead, it was full of natural light and soft colors. Not to mention beautiful things, things which the doctors at Rosenkreuz had never allowed Farfarello near. A television, drapes, a kitchen with glasses and knives. Things Farfarello hadn't had in years, even before Rosenkreuz.

 

And when Crawford took him to his bedroom, he was surprised to find a bed with pillows and a duvet, a side table, and a closet.

 

“I'm going to be sleeping here?” he asked.

 

“Don't be mistaken.” There was a sharp edge to Crawford's voice. “There are three deadbolts on the outside of this door, and the windows are all made of bullet-proof glass. There is also a cell adjacent to this room where you will be kept for punishment. I allow a certain level of freedom, but do not tolerate bad behavior.”

 

Farfarello thought for a few moments. “Can I change it?”

 

“Everything except the security measures, so long as you use your own money.”

 

“I don't have any money.”

 

“You will.”

 

How much did Schuldig not tell him? Farfarello didn't know that he'd be getting paid. He didn't know that he would be allowed out of his room during the daytime, let alone have a room at all. He wondered if Schuldig didn't feel like telling him, didn't out of some curiosity of his reaction, or if he simply took it for granted that he had all these things.

 

The most important question to Farfarello was whether this meant that Crawford respected him

 

As Crawford finally undid the straps of his straight-jacket, Farfarello said, “Schuldig tells me that you're from New Jersey. Or perhaps New York. You strike him as a city boy.”

 

“He knows I where I was taken,” Crawford said simply.

 

“But it's not where your family is from.” He felt Crawford pause for a moment, then continue. “You're a mystery to him. It's what keeps him interested—so long as he can't figure you out, he won't get bored. But then, you know this.”

 

His arms came free, and Farfarello rolled the stiffness out. Crawford paused at the door.

 

“I appreciate perceptiveness in my team members,” he said. “But I suggest you find other subjects to occupy your mind.”

 

Farfarello could recognize a warning when he got one. His respect for the American wouldn't be tarnished by learning of his origins, but Schuldig's might. And if Farfarello knew something, Schuldig might just manage to dig it out someday. Farfarello wasn't stupid, and Crawford knew this.

 

The door closed with a sharp snap, and he was left alone with his room with his thoughts.

 

A snake handler, indeed.


End file.
